In Chap­ter 11, set dur­ing the days lead­ing up to East­er, Mikael Blomkvist reviews the man­u­script writ­ten by Dag Svens­son, a jour­nal­ist whose work expos­es sys­temic issues relat­ed to human traf­fick­ing and social injus­tices. The book is near­ly fin­ished, with nine out of twelve chap­ters com­plete, and Blomkvist antic­i­pates its high­ly impact­ful release. He’s engaged in metic­u­lous edit­ing, mark­ing clar­i­fi­ca­tions and sug­ges­tions main­ly in the mar­gins, rec­og­niz­ing Svensson’s com­pelling and hard-hit­ting writ­ing style.

As Blomkvist reflects on a trou­bling inci­dent involv­ing Lis­beth Salan­der, who is now back in Stock­holm, he attempts to recon­nect with her but is met with silence. He recalls a recent vio­lent episode at Salander’s build­ing and feels both con­cern and sad­ness for their estranged friend­ship. Despite his efforts to reach out, includ­ing send­ing a heart­felt let­ter, he receives no response.

The nar­ra­tive shifts as Blomkvist receives a call from Svens­son, who is unable to con­nect with a col­league regard­ing urgent visu­al mate­ri­als for the book. Svens­son express­es con­cerns about a fig­ure named Alexan­der Zala, a not­ed crim­i­nal, and sug­gests fur­ther inves­ti­ga­tion could enhance the com­plete­ness of the book. Blomkvist, how­ev­er, wor­ries about the impend­ing dead­line.

Lat­er that night, a young girl named Lis­beth Salan­der unex­pect­ed­ly vis­its Svensson’s home, seek­ing infor­ma­tion about the book and pos­ing ques­tions about Zala, sig­nal­ing her deep inter­est and involve­ment in the mat­ter.

The chap­ter dra­mat­i­cal­ly esca­lates as Blomkvist, en route to meet Svens­son and Johans­son, becomes engulfed in a hor­ri­fy­ing scene. Upon arriv­ing, he dis­cov­ers both Svens­son and Johans­son have been bru­tal­ly mur­dered. The grue­some cir­cum­stances over­whelm him, leav­ing him grap­pling with shock and despair. Blomkvist calls for emer­gency help but real­izes that the killer may still be near­by. As he inter­acts with the police, he pro­vides cru­cial infor­ma­tion, feel­ing the heavy weight of the tragedy’s impact and the urgency to find answers for the hor­rif­ic act com­mit­ted against his friends. With ten­sion brew­ing, the night sets the stage for impend­ing inves­ti­ga­tions into a cold-blood­ed crime that inter­twines with his and Salander’s lives.

In this chap­ter of “Their Eyes Were Watch­ing God,” Janie grap­ples with her feel­ings for Tea Cake, whom she ini­tial­ly views with sus­pi­cion due to their age dif­fer­ence and his care­free demeanor. Despite her hes­i­ta­tions, she can’t help but feel drawn to him as he unex­pect­ed­ly returns to her life one week lat­er, offer­ing music and com­pan­ion­ship. The atmos­phere shifts from ten­sion to warmth as they share a light­heart­ed evening, play­ing check­ers and enjoy­ing lemon­ade, illus­trat­ing the ease of their bud­ding con­nec­tion.

Janie reflects on her past rela­tion­ships and ques­tions Tea Cake’s inten­tions while Hezeki­ah, a friend, express­es his con­cerns about Tea Cake’s char­ac­ter, sug­gest­ing he may not have good inten­tions. How­ev­er, Janie’s feel­ings only deep­en; she longs to believe in Tea Cake’s affec­tion, dis­miss­ing Hezekiah’s warn­ings. The con­trast between Janie’s emo­tion­al tur­moil and the light­ness of her inter­ac­tions with Tea Cake empha­sizes her inter­nal con­flict.

As the chap­ter unfolds, Janie and Tea Cake engage in play­ful ban­ter, high­light­ing their chem­istry. Tea Cake’s request to go fish­ing at night ignites a sense of adven­ture in Janie, lead­ing them to sneak out togeth­er, reliv­ing the thrill of child­hood. Tea Cake con­tin­ues to charm Janie with thought­ful ges­tures, such as bring­ing her fresh fish and inter­twin­ing melodies that enchant her. Their ban­ter is laced with flir­ta­tion, blur­ring the lines of friend­ship and romance.

Though doubts creep in after Tea Cake’s absence fol­low­ing their enjoy­able encoun­ters, Janie ulti­mate­ly real­izes her grow­ing attach­ment to him. When he returns, this time bring­ing straw­ber­ries and an invi­ta­tion for a pic­nic, she feels a surge of excite­ment and desire, despite still wrestling with her inse­cu­ri­ties. Janie’s reluc­tance is only a mask for her eager­ness to be with Tea Cake. Their play­ful exchanges fur­ther solid­i­fy the bond they are form­ing, and Janie’s emo­tion­al land­scape trans­forms as she begins to embrace her desires, indi­cat­ing a sig­nif­i­cant turn­ing point in her jour­ney towards self-dis­cov­ery and love.

In Chap­ter 11 of “The Art Thief,” the psy­cho­log­i­cal exam­i­na­tion of Bre­itwieser sheds light on his moti­va­tions and men­tal state. Diag­nosed with nar­cis­sis­tic and anti­so­cial per­son­al­i­ty dis­or­ders, he shows a warped per­cep­tion of real­i­ty regard­ing his art thefts. Despite under­go­ing ther­a­py ses­sions and tests, includ­ing those by psy­chol­o­gist Schmidt, his behav­ior is deemed out of touch with soci­etal norms. Schmidt high­lights that Bre­itwieser believes him­self to be a seer of true beau­ty, feel­ing enti­tled to take art regard­less of legal­i­ty, as he per­ceives his actions as vic­tim­less since he avoids per­son­al res­i­dences and vio­lence.

Breitwieser’s accom­plice, Anne-Cather­ine, was eval­u­at­ed by psy­chol­o­gist César Redon­do, who not­ed her vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty to manip­u­la­tion, sug­gest­ing she had been drawn into Bre­itwieser’s activ­i­ties with­out the strength to resist. Both psy­chol­o­gists agreed that he is ful­ly aware of the moral­i­ty of his actions. Brun­ner, anoth­er psy­chol­o­gist, con­firmed that Bre­itwieser’s behav­ior can­not be clin­i­cal­ly clas­si­fied as a psy­cho­log­i­cal ill­ness, stat­ing that theft itself is not an indi­ca­tor of men­tal ill­ness, despite its roots in his per­son­al­i­ty.

Bre­itwieser main­tains his jus­ti­fi­ca­tion for theft through a his­tor­i­cal lens, claim­ing that the lega­cy of art is filled with sto­ries of plun­der and own­er­ship dis­putes. He cites exam­ples like the Hors­es of Saint Mark, trac­ing their tumul­tuous his­to­ry across sev­er­al empires, assert­ing that art theft has been a nar­ra­tive through­out his­to­ry. For him, each stolen piece rein­forces his belief that the art world is rife with decep­tion and thiev­ery; he per­ceives him­self mere­ly as a par­tic­i­pant in this long-stand­ing tra­di­tion.

Ulti­mate­ly, the chap­ter presents Bre­itwieser as a com­plex character—viewed by some as a sim­plis­tic thief dri­ven by enti­tle­ment and oth­ers as a mis­un­der­stood fig­ure amidst a cor­rupt art world. His relent­less pur­suit of art, dri­ven by a mix of exhil­a­ra­tion and thrill, posi­tions him in stark con­trast to soci­etal norms, reveal­ing the lay­ers of per­son­al jus­ti­fi­ca­tion behind his ille­gal actions in the art indus­try .

Aidan didn’t speak again until we were out­side Osprey Lodge, lead­ing me into the dark pine trees where I had met Gwen­dolyn. He con­front­ed me about my phone theft, to which I apol­o­gized, con­fess­ing I felt half-informed. Aidan warned me about know­ing more, refer­ring to a mys­te­ri­ous “they” that posed a dan­ger. He revealed Hugo’s dark past with con­nec­tions to human traf­fick­ing and crim­i­nal charges, and expressed his own para­noia about Hugo watch­ing me. I reas­sured Aidan that his moth­er need­ed imme­di­ate help, sug­gest­ing he should get her real treat­ment. He dis­missed my con­cern, explain­ing that her men­tal break­down fol­low­ing a vis­it from Dawn Tag­gart was beyond sim­ple ther­a­py and may lead to prison if dealt with open­ly.

I sought clar­i­fi­ca­tion about Mag­gie’s involve­ment, but Aidan main­tained her safe­ty and the impos­si­bil­i­ty of her reveal­ing wed­ding truths due to my per­ceived inabil­i­ty to han­dle them. A sud­den change over­took him as he shift­ed back towards the wed­ding fes­tiv­i­ties, leav­ing me alone with burn­ing ques­tions. He insist­ed I return to the par­ty, but I resolved to con­front Mag­gie, con­fi­dent that she held the truths I des­per­ate­ly need­ed.

Retriev­ing the Osprey Cove map from my pock­et, I slipped into the woods where I hoped Mag­gie was stay­ing. Nav­i­gat­ing the dark for­est, I found the trail chal­leng­ing and felt the oppres­sive atmos­phere height­en­ing my anx­i­ety. The wind­ing path and encroach­ing shad­ows sharp­ened my instincts, mak­ing me feel I was being watched. After a long trek, I final­ly spot­ted the Hum­ming­bird cot­tage, its faint lights beck­on­ing me.

Upon enter­ing, I sensed anoth­er pres­ence. I grasped a wine bot­tle for pro­tec­tion as I pushed open the slight­ly ajar door, only to wit­ness a shock­ing scene: Mag­gie in a vul­ner­a­ble state, and Errol Gard­ner, a threat, loom­ing over her. My instincts kicked in, and in a blind fury, I attacked him. Strug­gling to sub­due Errol, I was momen­tar­i­ly dis­tract­ed by Mag­gie’s scream, which inten­si­fied my resolve. Just as I was about to gain com­plete con­trol, a sharp blow to my head left me dazed, and my last sight was of Hugo rush­ing in to inter­vene. In that moment, I real­ized Mag­gie had seen him and remained silent. The dark­ness enveloped me as I lost con­scious­ness.

In Chap­ter 11 of the nar­ra­tive, a des­per­ate and impro­vised plan mate­ri­al­izes as the pro­tag­o­nist approach­es the wom­en’s quar­ters of a camp, where a men­ac­ing white man, sym­bol­ic of oppres­sion, prowls about. Buck ques­tions the need to locate the protagonist’s fam­i­ly, to which he con­fi­dent­ly responds that they are inside, assert­ing the inten­tion to res­cue every­one. The dia­logue reveals ten­sions and uncer­tain­ties regard­ing their escape, par­tic­u­lar­ly as Buck and Mor­ris dis­cuss poten­tial routes lead­ing north.

As the pro­tag­o­nist pre­pares for action, he believes the over­seer will flee toward a near­by corn­field, prompt­ing him to ini­ti­ate a diver­sion. He crouch­es low in the corn­field, tests the dry­ness of the plants, and ignites a cor­ner of the field, fuel­ing a chaot­ic blaze that quick­ly engulfs the night, caus­ing pan­ic among those near­by. The leader observes Mor­ris suc­cess­ful­ly inca­pac­i­tat­ing the over­seer while wield­ing the man’s whip, demon­strat­ing a shift in pow­er dynam­ics.

Amidst the encroach­ing chaos of fire and fear, a poignant reunion occurs. The pro­tag­o­nist spots Sadie, whom he ini­tial­ly can­not believe is before him. They share an emo­tion­al con­nec­tion as they embrace, fol­lowed by the arrival of Lizzie, the pro­tag­o­nist’s child. The urgency esca­lates as he instructs the men to gath­er every­one and flee north, empha­siz­ing the need to col­lect food while the fire rages, draw­ing the atten­tion of the white over­seer, now vis­i­bly hor­ri­fied by the flames.

As the old man bran­dish­es a shot­gun and calls for the escap­ing slaves to return, the pro­tag­o­nist con­fronts him defi­ant­ly, assert­ing a men­ac­ing pres­ence as “James,” an omen of jus­tice. The stand­off cul­mi­nates in a dra­mat­ic shot fired, strik­ing down the over­seer and envelop­ing the scene in ter­ror and vengeance. While chaos reigns with flames roar­ing and women scream­ing, Sadie prompts their retreat. The group dash­es north­ward, with the pro­tag­o­nist car­ry­ing Lizzie, who inces­sant­ly calls for her father, “Papa.” This chap­ter pow­er­ful­ly encap­su­lates themes of resis­tance, famil­ial bonds, and the tumult of seek­ing free­dom amidst oppres­sion.

In Chap­ter 11, Huck and the nar­ra­tor engage in a whim­si­cal con­ver­sa­tion about a sto­ry involv­ing a genie. Huck excit­ed­ly recounts the tale, envi­sion­ing a genie who emerges from a lamp rather than a small man. Skep­ti­cal, the nar­ra­tor chal­lenges Huck’s rec­ol­lec­tion, recall­ing how Tom Sawyer’s sto­ries haven’t always been truth­ful. The dis­cus­sion leads to the genie offer­ing three wish­es, prompt­ing them to pon­der what they would wish for, a con­tem­pla­tion laden with deep­er impli­ca­tions.

The nar­ra­tor reflects that while some wish­es might seem entic­ing, they could lead to unde­sir­able outcomes—a thought influ­enced by his read­ings. For instance, eter­nal life might mean endur­ing the loss of loved ones, lead­ing him to feel hes­i­tant about mak­ing wish­es at all. Huck express­es his desire for adven­ture, along­side a wish for the nar­ra­tor’s free­dom. This con­ver­sa­tion shifts the focus to broad­er themes of free­dom and rights, with Huck assert­ing that every man deserves free­dom. The nar­ra­tor, how­ev­er, dis­miss­es the con­cept of rights, hint­ing at a deep­er philo­soph­i­cal con­flict between them.

Their dia­logue then revolves around car­ry­ing heavy books, jux­ta­pos­ing the pur­suit of knowl­edge and adven­tures. Even­tu­al­ly, they fall into a com­fort­able silence, with Huck suc­cumb­ing to sleep, leav­ing the nar­ra­tor to con­tem­plate his love for read­ing. He grap­ples with the secre­cy of his lit­er­ary pur­suits, craft­ing a nar­ra­tive to account for his actions should Huck wake. This moment high­lights the pow­er of lit­er­a­ture as a pri­vate and free­ing endeav­or, con­trast­ing with the con­straints of their lives.

The nar­ra­tor draws a con­nec­tion between read­ing and free­dom, feel­ing lib­er­at­ed as he holds a nov­el he has nev­er read, but under­stands it rep­re­sents fiction—similar to reli­gion or his­to­ry. As he opens the book, he immers­es him­self in a nar­ra­tive that trans­ports him away from the con­fines of the Mis­sis­sip­pi and Mis­souri, indi­cat­ing a long­ing for escape and the trans­for­ma­tive pow­er of lit­er­a­ture.

In this chap­ter titled “We Solve Mur­ders,” the con­ver­sa­tion unfolds between Amy and Rosie, ini­tial­ly over drinks in the glar­ing South Car­oli­na sun. Amy intro­duces Bel­la Sanchez, a for­mer real­i­ty TV star and client of Max­i­mum Impact, who met a grim fate in St. Lucia after a social media gig. The details of her mur­der mir­ror those of Andrew Fair­banks, anoth­er Plat­inum client of Max­i­mum Impact, engross­ing Rosie with the dra­ma of it all. Bel­la was shot and dis­played upside down from a bal­cony, an act reflect­ing both dra­mat­ics and mor­bid curios­i­ty.

As the con­ver­sa­tion pro­gress­es, Amy reveals anoth­er case—a finan­cial influ­encer named Mark Gooch, also a Plat­inum client—who was found dead in Ire­land with a sim­i­lar nar­ra­tive of mys­tery and mur­der sur­round­ing him. With each death, Rosie sens­es a pat­tern while ques­tion­ing Amy’s prox­im­i­ty to these events, hint­ing at the pos­si­bil­i­ty that Amy may not be the inno­cent par­ty she claims to be. Each vic­tim’s demise appears to draw Amy clos­er to an unsa­vory sto­ry­line that sug­gests a hid­den con­nec­tion.

Rosie’s inquiries press Amy on her where­abouts dur­ing these inci­dents, with Amy reveal­ing she was in St. Lucia work­ing with Elton John when Bel­la was killed and in near­by Dublin when Mark suc­cumbed to a sim­i­lar fate. This pro­vokes para­noia in Amy, as she con­tem­plates an unseen fig­ure try­ing to frame her for the mur­ders. Rosie jok­ing­ly probes fur­ther about poten­tial motives, but Amy fierce­ly denies any involve­ment.

The ten­sion builds as Amy receives alarm­ing mes­sages from her boss, Jeff, hint­ing at deep­er trou­ble con­cern­ing a pre­vi­ous job linked to François Lou­bet, a noto­ri­ous crim­i­nal. As Amy grap­ples with the impli­ca­tions, Rosie skep­ti­cal­ly warns her about return­ing to Lon­don, sug­gest­ing hid­den snares may await her there.

Amy remains adamant about resum­ing her work and insists on pro­tect­ing Rosie, even as Rosie jests about the grim prospects of her sit­u­a­tion. In con­clu­sion, the chap­ter blends intrigue and humor while lay­ing out a web of con­nec­tions between the char­ac­ters and mur­der, show­cas­ing Amy’s deter­mi­na­tion against ris­ing ten­sions.

In Chap­ter 11 of “All the Col­ors of the Dark,” Saint spends the night in agi­ta­tion, metic­u­lous­ly mark­ing the van’s route on her map. Her home, lack­ing per­son­al touch­es, is filled with books but devoid of any pho­tographs or make­up, reflect­ing her soli­tary life. At dawn, she dis­cov­ers her grand­moth­er at the oak table, show­ing signs of sleep­less­ness from the night before. Their con­ver­sa­tion briefly touch­es on the top­ic of bees, which her grand­moth­er shakes her head at, indi­cat­ing some­thing unspo­ken has affect­ed their lives.

Saint pre­pares her­self for the day, not­ing her disheveled appear­ance and the absence of her retain­er, a rel­ic of chas­ing a boy named Patch through a corn­field. Nos­tal­gia and long­ing seep into her thoughts, prompt­ing a silent prayer for his return. Break­fast at the table, con­sist­ing of uneat­en eggs, serves as a stark reminder of the heav­i­ness in their hearts. The men­tion of school being closed sig­nals a day of uncer­tain­ty, and Saint, despite nev­er hav­ing missed a day, admits she had no inten­tion to attend, dri­ven instead by her desire to learn and per­haps escape the press­ing real­i­ty around her.

After break­fast, she heads to the wood­land, where Chief Nix calls for vol­un­teers to search for the miss­ing boy. The atmos­phere is laden with ten­sion and a grim sense of pur­pose, as he out­lines their mis­sion: to walk in silence and remain vig­i­lant. Among the gath­ered crowd, Saint feels the weight of exclu­sion when Chief Nix dis­miss­es her from par­tic­i­pat­ing, leav­ing her sur­round­ed by labor­ers and teenagers whose eager­ness con­trasts sharply with her own dread.

As they pre­pare to march through the woods, hope mix­es with despair, and the col­lec­tive antic­i­pa­tion of find­ing some­thing ter­ri­ble per­vades the air. The chap­ter cap­tures a poignant blend of per­son­al tur­moil and com­mu­nal grief, echo­ing the larg­er nar­ra­tive of loss and long­ing. Sain­t’s inter­nal strug­gles, along­side the grim search efforts, frame a crit­i­cal moment in her jour­ney, mark­ing a shift in her rela­tion­ship with both hope and real­i­ty.

In Chap­ter 11, we return to a hotel set­ting where Pauline, dressed in navy linen, greets wed­ding guests cheer­ful­ly despite the exhaus­tion from address­ing com­plaints. Lila express­es dis­sat­is­fac­tion with her mat­tress, reflect­ing deep­er emo­tion­al tur­moil linked to an unset­tling funer­al expe­ri­ence dur­ing their sail­ing trip. The inter­ac­tion reveals Lila’s habit of dis­plac­ing her dis­sat­is­fac­tion onto triv­ial mat­ters, dis­play­ing her deter­mi­na­tion to engage the ever-help­ful Pauline in solv­ing these “prob­lems.”

As Lila dis­cuss­es her griev­ances, Phoebe observes Gary’s will­ing­ness to final­ly make deci­sions, con­trast­ing her per­cep­tion of him as over­ly pas­sive. This prompts a moment of reflec­tion about the nature of rela­tion­ships and how peo­ple often box each oth­er into fixed iden­ti­ties. Phoebe grap­ples with her iden­ti­ty, rec­og­niz­ing both the lim­i­ta­tions she places on oth­ers and her own lin­ger­ing inse­cu­ri­ties.

Lila pro­pos­es get­ting a mat­tress top­per as a poten­tial fix, which results in more com­mu­ni­ca­tion between her and Pauline. Mean­while, Phoebe and Gary engage in a play­ful act of “free­ing the books” on the hotel shelf, show­cas­ing their bud­ding con­nec­tion. This light­heart­ed moment con­trasts with Lila’s wor­ries about her upcom­ing wed­ding events, includ­ing her friend Vivian’s delayed arrival.

After a brief encounter with Lila’s moth­er, who cri­tiques the hotel decor, the chap­ter delves into the macro­cosm of human con­nec­tion and emo­tion­al vul­ner­a­bil­i­ty dur­ing life tran­si­tions. Phoebe finds her­self laugh­ing amidst dis­cus­sions of logis­tics and fam­i­ly pres­sures, reveal­ing how cama­raderie may arise in unex­pect­ed set­tings.

As the chap­ter pro­gress­es, Phoebe’s inter­nal strug­gles sur­face along­side her grow­ing bond with Gary. She reflects on their brief con­nec­tion and how her past influ­ences her present out­look on inti­ma­cy and lone­li­ness. The inten­si­ty of her past leads to a moment of self-real­iza­tion, where she intends to adopt a more engaged approach to life.

By the end, there’s a turn of events as Lila seeks sup­port, and Phoebe agrees to step in as her maid of hon­or, mark­ing a cru­cial shift in their inter­ac­tion. This rev­e­la­tion hints at new begin­nings for Phoebe as she moves past her pre­vi­ous intent of iso­la­tion, open­ing up to the pos­si­bil­i­ty of rebuild­ing con­nec­tions with oth­ers .

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

Wait­ing ai

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

ELEVEN
“Mil­lie!” Nina’s voice sounds fran­tic on the oth­er line. “I need you to pick
up Cecelia from school!”
I’ve got a pile of laun­dry bal­anced in my arms, and my cell phone is
between my shoul­der and my ear. I always pick up imme­di­ate­ly when Nina
calls, no mat­ter what I’m doing. Because if I don’t, she will call over and
over (and over) until I do.
“Sure, no prob­lem,” I say.
“Oh, thank you!” Nina gush­es. “You’re such a dear! Just grab her from
the Win­ter Acad­e­my at 2:45! You’re the best, Mil­lie!”
Before I can ask any oth­er ques­tions, like where I’m sup­posed to meet
Cecelia or the address of the Win­ter Acad­e­my, Nina has hung up. As I
remove the phone wedged under my ear, I feel a jolt of pan­ic when I see the
time. I’ve got less than fif­teen min­utes to fig­ure out where this school is and
retrieve my employer’s daugh­ter. Laun­dry is going to have to wait.
I type the name of the school into Google as I sprint down the stairs.
Noth­ing comes up. The clos­est school by that name is in Wis­con­sin, and
even though Nina makes some odd requests, I doubt she expects me to pick
her daugh­ter up in Wis­con­sin in fif­teen min­utes. I call Nina back, but
nat­u­ral­ly, she doesn’t pick up. Nei­ther does Andy when I try him.
Great.
While I pace across the kitchen, try­ing to fig­ure out what to do next, I
notice a piece of paper stuck to the refrig­er­a­tor with a mag­net. It’s a school
hol­i­day sched­ule. From the Wind­sor Acad­e­my.
She said Win­ter. Win­ter Acad­e­my. I’m sure of it. Didn’t she?
I don’t have time to won­der if Nina told me the wrong name or if she
doesn’t know the name of the school her daugh­ter attends, where she is also
vice pres­i­dent of the PTA. Thank­ful­ly, there’s an address on the fli­er, so I
know exact­ly where to go. And I’ve only got ten min­utes to get there.
The Win­ches­ters live in a town that boasts some of the best pub­lic
schools in the coun­try but Cecelia goes to pri­vate school, because of course
she does. The Wind­sor Acad­e­my is a huge ele­gant struc­ture with lots of
ivory columns, dark brown bricks, and ivy run­ning along the walls that
makes me feel like I’m pick­ing Cecelia up at Hog­warts or some­thing unre­al
like that. One oth­er thing I wish Nina had warned me about was the park­ing
sit­u­a­tion at pick-up time. It is an absolute night­mare. I have to dri­ve around
for sev­er­al min­utes search­ing for a spot, and I final­ly squeeze in between a
Mer­cedes and a Rolls-Royce. I’m scared some­body might tow my dent­ed
Nis­san just on prin­ci­ple.
Giv­en how lit­tle time I had to get to the school, I’m huff­ing and puff­ing
as I sprint to the entrance. And nat­u­ral­ly, there are five sep­a­rate entrances.
Which one will Cecelia be com­ing out of? There’s no indi­ca­tion where I
should go. I try call­ing Nina again, but once more, the call goes to
voice­mail. Where is she? It’s none of my busi­ness, but the woman doesn’t
have a job and I do all the chores. What could she be doing with her­self?
After ques­tion­ing sev­er­al irri­ta­ble par­ents, I ascer­tain that Cecelia will
be com­ing out of the very last entrance on the right side of the school. But
just because I am deter­mined not to screw this up, I approach two
immac­u­late­ly dressed women chat­ting by the door and ask, “Is this the exit
for the fourth graders?”
“Yes, it is.” The thin­ner of the two women—a brunette with the most
per­fect­ly shaped eye­brows I’ve ever seen—looks me up and down. “Who
are you look­ing for?”
I squirm under her gaze. “Cecelia Win­ches­ter.”
The two women exchange know­ing looks. “You must be the new maid
Nina hired,” the short­er woman—a redhead—says.
“House­keep­er,” I cor­rect her, although I don’t know why. Nina can call
me what­ev­er she wants.
The brunette snick­ers at my com­ment, but doesn’t say any­thing about it.
“So how is it so far work­ing there?”
She’s dig­ging for dirt. Good luck with that—I’m not going to give her
any. “It’s great.”
The women exchange looks again. “So Nina isn’t dri­ving you crazy?”
the red­head asks me.
“What do you mean?” I say care­ful­ly. I don’t want to gos­sip with these
harpies, but at the same time, I’m curi­ous about Nina.
“Nina is just a bit… high strung,” the brunette says.
“Nina is nuts,” the red­head pipes up. “Lit­er­al­ly.”
I suck in a breath. “What?”
The brunette elbows the red­head hard enough to make her gasp.
“Noth­ing. She’s just jok­ing around.”
At that moment, the doors to the school swing open and chil­dren pour
out. If there were any chance to get more infor­ma­tion out of these two
women, the chance is gone as they both move in the direc­tion of their own
fourth graders. But I can’t stop think­ing about what they said.
I spot Cecelia’s pale blond hair near the entrance. Even though most of
the oth­er kids are wear­ing jeans and T‑shirts, she’s wear­ing anoth­er lacy
dress, this one a pale sea green. She sticks out like a sore thumb. I have no
prob­lem keep­ing her in my sight as I move toward her.
“Cecelia!” I wave my arm fran­ti­cal­ly as I get clos­er. “I’m here to pick
you up!”
Cecelia looks at me like she would much rather get into the back of the
van of some beard­ed home­less man than go home with me. She shakes her
head and turns away from me.
“Cecelia!” I say, more sharply. “Come on. Your mom said I should pick
you up.”
She turns back to look at me, and her eyes say she thinks I’m a moron.
“No, she didn’t. Sophia’s moth­er is pick­ing me up and tak­ing me to karate.”
Before I can protest, a woman in her for­ties wear­ing yoga pants and a
pullover comes over and rests her hand on Cecelia’s shoul­der. “Ready for
karate, girls?”
I blink up at the woman. She does not appear to be a kid­nap­per. But
there’s obvi­ous­ly been some mis­un­der­stand­ing. Nina called me and told me
to pick up Cecelia. She was very clear about it. Well, except for the part
where she told me the wrong school. But oth­er than that, she was very clear.
“Excuse me,” I say to the woman. “I work for the Win­ches­ters and Nina
asked me to pick up Cecelia today.”
The woman arch­es an eye­brow and places a recent­ly man­i­cured hand on
her hip. “I don’t think so. I pick up Cecelia every sin­gle Wednes­day and

In Chap­ter 11, Feyre Archeron con­fronts a com­plex web of emo­tions and pow­er dynam­ics upon return­ing to the Night Court with Rhysand, its enig­mat­ic and pow­er­ful High Lord. Despite her weight loss and a sense of dis­con­nec­tion from the world around her, Feyre is invit­ed by Rhysand to share a meal, an offer that seems to come from a place of gen­uine con­cern along­side his usu­al play­ful ban­ter. Dur­ing break­fast, Rhysand probes into Feyre’s well-being and recent expe­ri­ences in the Spring Court, hint­ing at a dis­tur­bance he felt through their mys­ti­cal bond—a bond that oth­er­wise remains frus­trat­ing­ly silent to him. As they con­verse, Feyre nav­i­gates Rhysand’s attempts to delve into her pri­vate tur­moil while also resist­ing his offer to join forces for an impend­ing war.

Feyre grap­ples with both her phys­i­cal and emo­tion­al frailty, along with the evi­dent ten­sion between main­tain­ing her inde­pen­dence and con­fronting the lin­ger­ing trau­ma of her past, par­tic­u­lar­ly the ordeal Under the Moun­tain. Rhysand’s mix of intu­ition and manip­u­la­tion sur­faces as he tries to break through her defens­es by alter­nat­ing between provo­ca­tion and sup­port, indica­tive of deep­er lay­ers of his char­ac­ter and their com­pli­cat­ed rela­tion­ship.

The nar­ra­tive sub­se­quent­ly shifts to a qui­eter, but no less intense, phase where Feyre’s days are filled with soli­tary read­ing and intro­spec­tion, punc­tu­at­ed by Rhysand’s inter­mit­tent pres­ence. He endeav­ors to pull her out of her apa­thy by push­ing her towards con­fronta­tion and acknowl­edge­ment of her feel­ings, even as she main­tains a con­trolled dis­tance, occa­sion­al­ly erupt­ing in brief moments of vis­cer­al emo­tion.

Rhysand’s per­sis­tence in engag­ing Feyre under­scores a mutu­al, though unspo­ken, strug­gle with their shared his­to­ry and the specter of Ama­ran­tha’s tyran­ny. Amidst spo­radic exchanges and Feyre’s inter­nal strug­gle with her sense of self and pur­pose, Rhysand’s part­ing advice to “fight it” speaks to a broad­er theme of resis­tance against despair and capit­u­la­tion.

The chap­ter cul­mi­nates with Tamlin’s sud­den appear­ance, his anger pal­pa­ble and direct­ed square­ly at Rhysand. This con­fronta­tion under­scores the ongo­ing ten­sion between the courts, Feyre’s com­pli­cat­ed feel­ings for both High Lords, and the loom­ing threat of con­trol under Tam­lin’s pro­tec­tive but sti­fling care. Rhysand’s part­ing words to Feyre echo a call to resilience, con­trast­ing with Tam­lin’s promise to end their unspec­i­fied dilem­ma, leav­ing Feyre caught between two pow­er­ful but vast­ly dif­fer­ent forms of influ­ence and care.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

S IX WEEKS INTO OUR MARRIAGE, Don and I shot a weepie on
loca­tion in Puer­to Val­lar­ta. Called One More Day, it was about a rich
girl, Diane, who spends the sum­mer with her par­ents at their sec­ond
home, and the local boy, Frank, who falls in love with her. Nat­u­ral­ly,
they can’t be togeth­er, because her par­ents don’t approve.
The first weeks of my mar­riage to Don had been near­ly bliss­ful. We
bought a house in Bev­er­ly Hills and had it dec­o­rat­ed in mar­ble and
linen. We had pool par­ties near­ly every week­end, drink­ing cham­pagne
and cock­tails all after­noon and into the night.
Don made love like a king, tru­ly. With the con­fi­dence and pow­er of
some­one in charge of a fleet of men. I melt­ed under­neath him. In the
right moment, for him, I’d have done any­thing he want­ed.
He had flipped a switch in me. A switch that changed me from a
woman who saw mak­ing love as a tool into a woman who knew that
mak­ing love was a need. I need­ed him. I need­ed to be seen. I came
alive under his gaze. Being mar­ried to Don had shown me anoth­er
side of myself, a side I was just get­ting to know. A side I liked.
When we got to Puer­to Val­lar­ta, we spent a few days in town before
shoot­ing. We took our rent­ed boat out into the water. We dived into the
ocean. We made love in the sand.
But as we start­ed shoot­ing and the dai­ly stress­es of Hol­ly­wood
start­ed frac­tur­ing our new­ly­wed cocoon, I could tell the tide was
turn­ing.
Don’s last movie, The Gun at Point Dume, wasn’t doing well at the
box office. It was his first time in a West­ern, his first crack at play­ing
an action hero. Pho­to­Mo­ment had just pub­lished a review say­ing, “Don
Adler is no John Wayne.” Hol­ly­wood Digest wrote, “Adler looks like a
fool hold­ing a gun.” I could tell it was both­er­ing him, mak­ing him
doubt him­self. Estab­lish­ing him­self as a mas­cu­line action hero was a
vital part of his plan. His father had most­ly played the straight man in
mad­cap come­dies, a clown. Don was out to prove he was a cow­boy.
It did not help that I had just won an Audi­ence Appre­ci­a­tion Award
for Best Ris­ing Star.
On the day we shot the final good-bye, where Diane and Frank kiss
one last time on the beach, Don and I woke up in our rent­ed bun­ga­low,
and he told me to make him break­fast. Mind you, he did not ask me to
make him break­fast. He barked the order. Regard­less, I ignored his
tone and called down to the maid.
She was a Mex­i­can woman named Maria. When we had first
arrived, I was unsure if I should speak Span­ish to the local peo­ple. And
then, with­out ever mak­ing a for­mal deci­sion about it, I found myself
speak­ing slow, overe­nun­ci­at­ed Eng­lish to every­one.
“Maria, will you please make Mr. Adler some break­fast?” I said into
the phone, and then I turned to Don and said, “What would you like?
Some cof­fee and eggs?”
Our maid back in Los Ange­les, Paula, made his break­fast every
morn­ing. She knew just how he liked it. I real­ized in that moment that
I’d nev­er paid atten­tion.
Frus­trat­ed, Don grabbed the pil­low from under his head and
smashed it over his face, scream­ing into it.
“What has got­ten into you?” I said.
“If you’re not going to be the kind of wife who is going to make me
break­fast, you can at least know how I like it.” He escaped to the
bath­room.
I was both­ered but not entire­ly sur­prised. I had quick­ly learned that
Don was only kind when he was hap­py, and he was only hap­py when
he was win­ning. I had met him on a win­ning streak, mar­ried him as he
was ascend­ing. I was quick­ly learn­ing that sweet Don was not the only
Don.
Lat­er, in our rent­ed Corvette, Don backed out of the dri­ve­way and
start­ed head­ing the ten blocks toward set.
“Are you ready for today?” I asked him. I was try­ing to be uplift­ing.
Don stopped in the mid­dle of the road. He turned to me. “I’ve been
a pro­fes­sion­al actor for longer than you’ve been alive.” This was true,
albeit on a tech­ni­cal­i­ty. He was in one of Mary’s silent movies as a
baby. He didn’t act in a movie again until he was twen­ty-one.
There were a few cars behind us now. We were hold­ing up traf­fic.
“Don . . .” I said, try­ing to encour­age him to move for­ward. He wasn’t
lis­ten­ing. The white truck behind us start­ed pulling around, try­ing to
get past us.
“Do you know what Alan Thomas said to me yes­ter­day?” Don said.
Alan Thomas was his new agent. Alan had been encour­ag­ing Don to
leave Sun­set Stu­dios, to go free­lance. A lot of actors were nav­i­gat­ing
their careers on their own. It was lead­ing to big pay­checks for big
stars. And Don was get­ting antsy. He kept talk­ing about mak­ing more
for one pic­ture than his par­ents had made their whole careers.
Be wary of men with some­thing to prove.
“Peo­ple around town are ask­ing why you’re still going by Eve­lyn
Hugo.”
“I changed my name legal­ly. What do you mean?”
“On the mar­quee. It should say ‘Don and Eve­lyn Adler.’ That’s what
peo­ple are say­ing.”
“Who is say­ing that?”
“Peo­ple.”
“What peo­ple?”
“They think you wear the pants.”
My head fell into my hands. “Don, you’re being sil­ly.”
Anoth­er car came up around us, and I watched as they rec­og­nized
Don and me. We were sec­onds away from a full page in Sub Rosa
mag­a­zine about how Hollywood’s favorite cou­ple were at each other’s
throat. They’d prob­a­bly say some­thing like “The Adlers Gone
Madlers?”
I sus­pect­ed Don saw the head­lines writ­ing them­selves at the same
time I did, because he start­ed the car and drove us to set. When we
pulled onto the lot, I said, “I can’t believe we’re almost forty-five
min­utes late.”
And Don said, “Yeah, well, we’re Adlers. We can be.”
I found it absolute­ly repug­nant. I wait­ed until the two of us were in
his trail­er, and I said, “When you talk like that, you sound like a horse’s
ass. You shouldn’t say things like that where peo­ple can hear you.”
He was tak­ing off his jack­et. Wardrobe was due in any moment. I
should have just left and gone to my own trail­er. I should have let him
be.
“I think you have got­ten the wrong impres­sion here, Eve­lyn,” Don
said.
“And how is that?”
He came right up into my face. “We are not equals, love. And I’m
sor­ry if I’ve been so kind that you’ve for­got­ten that.”
I was speech­less.
“I think this should be the last movie you do,” he said. “I think it’s
time for us to have chil­dren.”
His career wasn’t turn­ing out the way he want­ed. And if he wasn’t
going to be the most famous per­son in his fam­i­ly, he sure­ly wasn’t
going to allow that per­son to be me.
I looked right at him and said, “Absolute­ly. Pos­i­tive­ly. Not.”
And he smacked me across the face. Sharp, fast, strong.
It was over before I even knew what hap­pened, the skin on my face
sting­ing from the blow I could bare­ly believe had come my way.
If you’ve nev­er been smacked across the face, let me tell you
some­thing, it is humil­i­at­ing. Most­ly because your eyes start to tear up,
whether you mean to be cry­ing or not. The shock of it and the sheer
force of it stim­u­late your tear ducts.
There is no way to take a smack across the face and look sto­ic. All
you can do is remain still and stare straight ahead, allow­ing your face
to turn red and your eyes to bloom.
So that’s what I did.
The way I’d done it when my father hit me.
I put my hand to my jaw, and I could feel the skin heat­ing up under
my hand.
The assis­tant direc­tor knocked on the door. “Mr. Adler, is Miss
Hugo with you?”
Don was unable to speak.
“One minute, Bob­by,” I said. I was impressed by how unstrained my
voice was, how con­fi­dent it seemed. It sound­ed like the voice of a
woman who had nev­er been hit a day in her life.
There were no mir­rors I could get to eas­i­ly. Don had his back to
them, block­ing them. I pushed my jaw for­ward.
“Is it red?” I said.
Don could bare­ly look at me. But he glanced and then nod­ded his
head. He was boy­ish and ashamed, as if I were ask­ing him if he’d been
the one to break the neighbor’s win­dow.
“Go out there and tell Bob­by I’m hav­ing lady trou­bles. He’ll be too
embar­rassed to ask any­thing else. Then tell your wardrobe per­son to
meet you in my dress­ing room. Have Bob­by tell mine to meet me in
here in a half hour.”
“OK,” he said, and then grabbed his jack­et and slipped out.
The minute he was out the door, I locked myself inside and slumped
down against the wall, the tears com­ing fast the moment no one could
see them.
I had made my way three thou­sand miles from where I was born. I
had found a way to be in the right place at the right time. I’d changed
my name. Changed my hair. Changed my teeth and my body. I’d
learned how to act. I’d made the right friends. I’d mar­ried into a
famous fam­i­ly. Most of Amer­i­ca knew my name.
And yet . . .
And yet.
I got up off the floor and wiped my eyes. I gath­ered myself.
I sat down at the van­i­ty, three mir­rors in front of me lined with
light­bulbs. How sil­ly is it that I thought that if I ever found myself in a
movie star’s dress­ing room, that meant I’d have no trou­bles?
A few moments lat­er, Gwen­dolyn knocked on the door to do my
hair.
“One sec­ond!” I yelled out.
“Eve­lyn, we have to move quick­ly. You guys are already behind
sched­ule.”
“Just one sec­ond!”
I looked at myself in the mir­ror and real­ized I couldn’t force the
red­ness to go away. The ques­tion was whether I trust­ed Gwen. And I
decid­ed I did, I had to. I stood up and opened the door.
“Oh, sweet­heart,” she said. “You look a fright.”
“I know.”
She looked more close­ly at me and real­ized what she was see­ing.
“Did you fall?”
“Yes,” I said. “I did. I fell right over. Onto the counter. Jaw caught
the worst of it.”
We both knew I was lying.
And to this day, I’m not sure whether Gwen asked me if I fell in
order to spare me the need to lie or to encour­age me to keep qui­et.
I wasn’t the only woman being hit back then. A lot of women were
nego­ti­at­ing the very same things I was at that moment. There was a
social code for these things. The first rule being to shut up about it.
An hour lat­er, I was being escort­ed to set. We were to film a scene
just out­side a man­sion on the beach. Don was sit­ting in his chair, the
four wood­en legs dig­ging into the sand, behind the direc­tor. He ran up
to me.
“How are you feel­ing, sweet­heart?” His voice was so chip­per, so
con­sol­ing, that for a moment I thought he had for­got­ten what
hap­pened.
“I’m fine. Let’s get on with it.”
We took our places. The sound guy mic’ed us. The grips made sure
we were lit prop­er­ly. I put every­thing out of my head.
“Hold on, hold on!” the direc­tor yelled. “Ron­ny, what’s going on
with the boom . . .” Dis­tract­ed by a con­ver­sa­tion, he walked away from
the cam­era.
Don cov­ered his mic and then put his hand on my chest and
cov­ered mine.
“Eve­lyn, I’m so sor­ry,” he whis­pered into my ear.
I pulled back and looked at him, stunned. No one had ever
apol­o­gized for hit­ting me before.
“I nev­er should have laid a hand on you,” he said. His eyes were
fill­ing with tears. “I’m ashamed of myself. For doing any­thing at all to
hurt you.” He looked so pained. “I will do any­thing for your
for­give­ness.”
Maybe the life I thought I had wasn’t so far away after all.
“Can you for­give me?” he asked.
Maybe this was all a mis­take. Maybe it didn’t mean any­thing had to
change.

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

11
There was hard­ly any time to rehearse. I only had a week to get ready. I was
per­form­ing at the 2001 Super Bowl half­time show along­side Aero­smith, Mary J.
Blige, Nel­ly, and NSYNC. Justin and the rest of his band had spe­cial gloves that
shot foun­tains of sparks! I sang “Walk This Way” wear­ing a sexy ver­sion of a
foot­ball uni­form, with shiny sil­ver pants, a crop shirt, and an ath­let­ic sock on
one of my arms. I was brought to Steven Tyler’s trail­er to meet him right before
the show, and his ener­gy was incred­i­ble: he was such an idol to me. When we
�nished, the sta­di­um lit up with �reworks.
The half­time show was just one of the seem­ing­ly end­less good things
hap­pen­ing for me. I land­ed the “most pow­er­ful woman” spot on the Forbes list
of most pow­er­ful celebrities—the fol­low­ing year I’d be num­ber one over­all. I
learned that tabloids were mak­ing so much mon­ey o� pho­tos of me, I was
almost sin­gle-hand­ed­ly keep­ing some mag­a­zines in busi­ness. And I was start­ing
to get amaz­ing o�ers.
At the 2001 MTV Video Music Awards that Sep­tem­ber, the plan was for me
to sing “I’m a Slave 4 U,” and we decid­ed I would use a snake as a prop. It’s
become an icon­ic moment in VMAs his­to­ry, but it was even more ter­ri­fy­ing
than it appeared.
The �rst time I saw the snake was when they brought it to a lit­tle back room
of the Met­ro­pol­i­tan Opera House in Man­hat­tan, where we would be doing the
show. The girl who hand­ed it over was even small­er than me—she looked so
young, and she was very tiny, with blond hair. I couldn’t believe they didn’t have
some big guy in charge—I remem­ber think­ing, You’re let­ting us two lit­tle
munchkins han­dle this huge snake…?
But there we were, and there was no going back: she lift­ed up the snake and
put it over my head and around me. To be hon­est, I was a lit­tle scared—that
snake was a huge ani­mal, yel­low and white, crinkly, gross-look­ing. It was okay
because the girl who gave it to me was right there, plus a snake han­dler and a
bunch of oth­er peo­ple.
Every­thing changed, though, when I actu­al­ly had to do the song onstage with
the snake. Onstage I’m in per­for­mance mode: I’m in a cos­tume, and there’s
nobody else there but me. Once again the lit­tle munchkin came to me and
hand­ed me that huge snake, and all I knew was to look down, because I felt if I
looked up and caught its eye, it would kill me.
In my head I was say­ing, Just per­form, just use your legs and per­form. But
what nobody knows is that as I was singing, the snake brought its head right
around to my face, right up to me, and start­ed hiss­ing at me. You didn’t see that
shot on the TV, but in real life? I was think­ing, Are you fuck­ing seri­ous right now?
The fuck­ing god­damn snake’s tongue is flick­ing out at me. Right. Now. Final­ly, I
got to the part where I hand­ed it back, thank God.
The next night at Madi­son Square Gar­den in New York City, just days before
Sep­tem­ber 11, I per­formed a duet of “The Way You Make Me Feel” with
Michael Jack­son to cel­e­brate the thir­ti­eth anniver­sary of his solo career. In my
heels, I prowled all over that stage. The audi­ence went crazy. At one point it felt
like the whole crowd of twen­ty thou­sand was singing along with us.
Pep­si hired me to do com­mer­cials for them. In “The Joy of Pep­si,” I start­ed
out as a deliv­ery dri­ver and then wound up in a huge dance num­ber. In “Now
and Then,” I got to wear cute out�ts from var­i­ous eras. For the eight­ies sec­tion, I
got made up as Robert Palmer for a ver­sion of “Sim­ply Irre­sistible.” I was in hair
and make­up for four hours, and they still didn’t quite man­age to make me
con­vinc­ing as a man. But in the �fties part, I loved danc­ing at the dri­ve-in. I had
Bet­ty Boop hair. Work­ing in all those di�erent gen­res, I was amazed at how
intel­li­gent­ly done those com­mer­cials were.
The �rst movie I did was Cross­roads, writ­ten by Shon­da Rhimes and direct­ed by
Tam­ra Davis. We had �lmed it in March 2001, around the same time I was
record­ing the album Brit­ney. In the �lm, I was play­ing a “good girl” named Lucy
Wag­n­er. The expe­ri­ence wasn’t easy for me. My prob­lem wasn’t with any­one
involved in the pro­duc­tion but with what act­ing did to my mind. I think I
start­ed Method acting—only I didn’t know how to break out of my char­ac­ter. I
real­ly became this oth­er per­son. Some peo­ple do Method act­ing, but they’re
usu­al­ly aware of the fact that they’re doing it. But I didn’t have any sep­a­ra­tion at
all.
This is embar­rass­ing to say, but it’s like a cloud or some­thing came over me
and I just became this girl named Lucy. When the cam­era came on, I was her,
and then I couldn’t tell the di�erence between when the cam­era was on and
when it wasn’t. I know that seems stu­pid, but it’s the truth. I took it that
seri­ous­ly. I took it seri­ous­ly to the point where Justin said, “Why are you walk­ing
like that? Who are you?”
All I can say is it’s a good thing Lucy was a sweet girl writ­ing poems about
how she was “not a girl, not yet a woman,” and not a ser­i­al killer.
I end­ed up walk­ing di�erently, car­ry­ing myself di�erently, talk­ing di�erently.
I was some­one else for months while I �lmed Cross­roads. Still to this day, I bet
the girls I shot that movie with think, She’s a lit­tle… quirky. If they thought that,
they were right.
I was a baby, just like the char­ac­ter. I should’ve played myself on cam­era. But
I was so eager to do a good job that I kept try­ing to go deep with this char­ac­ter. I
had been me my whole life, and I want­ed to try some­thing di�erent! I should
have said to myself, It’s a teen road movie. It’s not that deep. Hon­est­ly, just have a
good time.
After the movie wrapped, one of my girl­friends from a club in LA came to
vis­it me. We went to CVS. I swear to God, I walked into the store, and as I talked
to her while we shopped, I �nal­ly came back to myself. When I came out­side
again I was cured of the spell that movie had cast. It was so strange. My lit­tle
spir­it showed back up in my body. That trip to buy make­up with a friend was
like wav­ing some mag­ic wand.
Then I was pissed.
I thought, Oh my God, what have I been doing the past few months? Who was
I?

You are being pro­vid­ed with a book chap­ter by chap­ter. I will request you to read the book for me after each chap­ter. After read­ing the chap­ter, 1. short­en the chap­ter to no less than 300 words and no more than 400 words. 2. Do not change the name, address, or any impor­tant nouns in the chap­ter. 3. Do not trans­late the orig­i­nal lan­guage. 4. Keep the same style as the orig­i­nal chap­ter, keep it con­sis­tent through­out the chap­ter. Your reply must com­ply with all four require­ments, or it’s invalid.
I will pro­vide the chap­ter now.

CHAPTER 11
After they put Blue and Korey to bed, Patri­cia told Carter every­thing.
“I’m not say­ing it was your imag­i­na­tion,” he said when she’d
fin­ished. “But you’re always keyed up after your meet­ings. Those are
mor­bid books y’all read.”
“I want an alarm sys­tem,” she told him.
“How would that have helped?” he asked. “Lis­ten, I promise for
the next lit­tle while I’ll make sure I’m home before dark.”
“I want an alarm sys­tem,” she repeat­ed.
“Before we go to all that trou­ble and expense, let’s see how you feel
after the next few weeks.”
She stood up from the end of the bed.
“I’m going to check on Miss Mary,” she told him, and left the room.
She checked the dead­bolts on the front, back, and sun porch doors,
leav­ing the lights on behind her, then went to Miss Mary’s room. The
room was lit by the orange glow of Miss Mary’s night-light. She
moved soft­ly in case Miss Mary was asleep, then saw the night-light
reflect­ing off her open eyes.
“Miss Mary?” Patri­cia asked. Miss Mary’s eyes cut side­ways at her.
“Are you awake?”
The sheet moved and Miss Mary’s claw strug­gled out, then ran out
of ener­gy and flopped down on her chest with­out get­ting where it
was going.
“I’m.” Miss Mary wet­ted her lips. “I’m.”
Patri­cia stepped to the bed rail­ing. She knew what Miss Mary
meant.
“It’s all right,” she said.
The two women stayed like that for a long qui­et moment, lis­ten­ing
to the hot wind press on the win­dows behind the drawn cur­tains.
“Who’s Hoyt Pick­ens?” Patri­cia asked, not expect­ing a reply.
“He killed my dad­dy,” Miss Mary said.
That took the air out of Patricia’s lungs. She’d nev­er heard that
name before. Besides which, Miss Mary usu­al­ly for­got about the
peo­ple who float­ed to the sur­face of her mind sec­onds after she’d
spo­ken their names. Patri­cia had nev­er heard her link the per­son and
their impor­tance togeth­er.
“Why do you say that?” she asked soft­ly.
“I have a pic­ture of Hoyt Pick­ens,” Miss Mary rasped. “In his ice
cream suit.”
Her ragged voice made Patricia’s scarred ear itch. The wind tried
to open the hid­den win­dows, rat­tled the glass, looked for a way in.
Miss Mary’s hand found some more ener­gy and slith­ered across the
blan­kets toward Patri­cia, who reached down and took the smooth,
cold hand in her own.
“How did he know your father?” she asked.
“Before sup­per, the men and my dad­dy used to sit on the back
porch pass­ing a jar,” Miss Mary said. “Us chil­dren had our sup­per
ear­ly and played in the front yard, then we saw a man in a suit the
col­or of vanil­la ice cream come up the road. He turned into our yard
and the men hid their jar because drink­ing was against the law. This
man walked up to my dad­dy and said his name was Hoyt Pick­ens and
he asked if my dad­dy knew where he could get him­self some rab­bit
spit. That’s what they called my daddy’s corn whiskey, because it
could make a rab­bit spit in a bulldog’s eye. He said he’d been on the
Cincin­nati train and his throat was dusty and it’d be worth two bits
to him to wet it. Mr. Lukens brought out the jar and Hoyt Pick­ens
tast­ed it. He said he’d been from Chica­go to Mia­mi and that was the
best corn liquor he ever had.”
Patri­cia didn’t breathe. It had been years since Miss Mary had put
this many sen­tences togeth­er.
“That night Mama and Dad­dy argued. Hoyt Pick­ens want­ed to buy
some of Daddy’s rab­bit spit and sell it in Colum­bia, but Mama said
no. It was ten-cent cot­ton and forty-cent meat back then. Rev­erend
Buck told us the boll wee­vil had come because there were too many
pub­lic swim­ming pools. The gov­ern­ment taxed every­thing from
cig­a­rettes to bow legs, but Daddy’s rab­bit spit made sure we always
had molasses on our corn­bread.
“Mama told him the snake that stuck out its head usu­al­ly got it
chopped off, but Dad­dy was tired of scratch­ing a liv­ing so he ignored
Mama and sold twelve jars of rab­bit spit to Hoyt Pick­ens and Hoyt
went to Colum­bia and sold those right quick and came back for
twelve more. He sold those, too, and soon Dad­dy had a sec­ond still
and was gone from the house from sun­down to sunup and sleep­ing
all day.
“Hoyt Pick­ens sat reg­u­lar at our table every Sun­day and some
Wednes­days and Fri­days, too. He told Dad­dy all the things he should
want. He told Dad­dy he could get more mon­ey if he laid up his rab­bit
spit in bar­rels until it turned brown. That meant Dad­dy had to lay
out con­sid­er­able and he wouldn’t see his mon­ey back for six months
until Hoyt took it to Colum­bia and got paid. But the first time Hoyt
laid that thick stack of bills on the table we all got excit­ed.”
Some­thing sharp tick­led Patricia’s palm. Miss Mary was scratch­ing
her nails against Patricia’s skin, back and forth, back and forth, like
insects creep­ing across the inside of her hand.
“Soon every­thing became about the rab­bit spit. Once the sher­iff
saw what Dad­dy was doing he touched him for a taste of that mon­ey.
Dad­dy need­ed oth­er men to work the stills and he paid them in scrip
while they wait­ed for the rab­bit spit to turn brown. Banks closed
faster than you could remem­ber their names so every­one held on to
their mon­ey, but Dad­dy bought a set of ency­clo­pe­dias, and a man­gle
for the wash, and the men all smoked store-bought cig­ars when they
sat out back.”
Patri­cia remem­bered Ker­shaw. They’d dri­ven the hun­dred and
fifty miles upstate many times to vis­it Carter’s cousins, and Miss
Mary when she lived alone. They hadn’t been in a long while, but
Patri­cia remem­bered a dry land pop­u­lat­ed by dry peo­ple, cov­ered in
dust, with fill­ing sta­tions at every cross­roads sell­ing evap­o­rat­ed milk
and gener­ic cig­a­rettes. She remem­bered fal­low fields and aban­doned
farms. She under­stood the appeal of some­thing fresh, and clean, and
green to peo­ple who lived in a small, hot place like that.
“Around then the Beck­ham boy went miss­ing,” Miss Mary said.
Her throat rasped now. “He was a pale lit­tle red­head­ed thing, six
years old, who’d fol­low any­one any­where. When he didn’t come
home for sup­per we all went look­ing. We expect­ed to find him curled
up under a pecan tree, but no. Some peo­ple said the gov­ern­ment
inoc­u­la­tion men took him away, oth­ers said there was a col­ored gal
in the woods who churned white chil­dren into a stew she sold as a
love spell for a nick­el a taste. Some folks said he fell in the riv­er and
got car­ried away, but it didn’t mat­ter what they said—he was gone.
“The next lit­tle boy to van­ish was Avery Dubose. He was a tin
buck­et tot­er and Hoyt told every­one he must have fell in one of the
machines at the mill and the boss lied about it. That stirred up bad
feel­ings between the mill and the farm­ers, and with so much rab­bit
spit around tem­pers ran hot. Men start­ed show­ing up at church with
their arms in slings and bruis­es on their faces. Mr. Beck­ham shot
him­self.
“But we had presents under the tree that Christ­mas and Dad­dy
con­vinced Mama sweet times were here. In Jan­u­ary her bel­ly got
tight and round. I was their only baby who’d lived out of three, but
now anoth­er baby had tak­en root.
“They’d nev­er have found Char­lie Beck­ham if that com­bine
sales­man hadn’t stopped his hors­es at the Moores’ old place and seen
the water from their pump flow thick with mag­gots. They had to let
that lit­tle boy’s body sit in the ice­house for three days to let all the
water drain before he’d fit in his cof­fin. Even then, they had to build
it extra wide.”
White spit formed gum­my balls in the cor­ners of Miss Mary’s
mouth, but Patri­cia didn’t move. She wor­ried that if she did any­thing
to break the spell this thread might snap, and Miss Mary might nev­er
speak like this again.
“That spring, nobody could afford to plant noth­ing,” Miss Mary
went on. “Nobody had noth­ing in the ground so Dad­dy and Hoyt had
to spend big to bring corn all the way from Rock Hill, and they had
all their mon­ey tied up in the rab­bit spit bar­rels. The banks didn’t
care about no scrip and they start­ed tak­ing everyone’s tools, and
their hors­es, and mules, and no one could do noth­ing. Every­one
wait­ed for those bar­rels.
“The third lit­tle boy to go miss­ing was Rev­erend Buck’s baby and
the men got togeth­er on our back porch and I heard them spec­u­late
through my win­dow about one per­son or anoth­er, and the jar kept
get­ting passed, and then Hoyt Pick­ens said he’d seen Leon Simms
around the Moore farm one night, and I want­ed to laugh because
only a stranger would say that. Leon was a col­ored fel­low and
some­thing had hap­pened to his head in the war. He sat in the sun
out­side Mr. Early’s store, and if you gave him can­dy he’d play
some­thing for you on the spoons and sing. His moth­er took care of
him and he got a gov­ern­ment check. Some­times he helped peo­ple
car­ry pack­ages and they always paid him in can­dy.
“But Hoyt Pick­ens said Leon liked to wan­der at night and had been
creep­ing in places he shouldn’t. He said this is what hap­pens when
peo­ple come down from up north and spread ideas in places that
weren’t ready for them. He said that Leon Simms sat out­side Mr.
Early’s store and licked his lips over chil­dren and took them to secret
places where he slaked his unnat­ur­al appetite.
“The more Hoyt Pick­ens talked, the more the men thought he
sound­ed right. I must have nod­ded off because when I opened my
eyes it was full dark and the back­yard was emp­ty. I heard the train
pass, and a hoot owl car­ry­ing on out in the woods, and I was slip­ping
back to sleep when the land lit up.
“A crowd of men came in fol­low­ing a wag­on and they had lanterns
and flash­lights. They were qui­et but I heard one hard voice talk­ing
loud, giv­ing orders, and it was my dad­dy. Next to him stood Hoyt
Pick­ens and his ice cream suit glowed in the dark. They pulled
some­thing off the back of the cart, a big burlap bag we used for
pick­ing cot­ton, and they lift­ed one end and some­thing flowed out wet
and black onto the dirt. It was Leon, all tied with rope.
“The men got shov­els, and they dug a deep hole under­neath the
peach tree and dragged Leon to it and he must not have been dead
because I heard him call my dad­dy ‘boss’ and say, ‘Please, boss, I’ll
play you some­thing, boss,’ and they threw him down in that hole and
piled dirt on top of him until his beg­ging got muf­fled, and after a
while you couldn’t hear it any­more, but I still could.
“When I woke up ear­ly there was mist on the ground and I went
out back to see if maybe I’d had a bad dream. But I could see the
fresh-dug dirt and then I heard a noise and saw my dad­dy sit­ting real
qui­et in the cor­ner of the porch and he had a jar of rab­bit spit
between his legs. His eyes were swollen red and when he saw me he
gave me a grin that came straight out of Hell.”
Patri­cia real­ized that was why Miss Mary let the peach­es rot. The
mem­o­ry of the fruit’s sweet juice run­ning down her chin, its meat
fill­ing her stom­ach, now tast­ed sour with Leon Simms’s blood.
“Hoyt Pick­ens left before the rab­bit spit turned brown,” Miss Mary
croaked. “Dad­dy took the wag­on to Colum­bia but he couldn’t find
who’d been buy­ing from Hoyt. All our mon­ey was in those bar­rels
but no one in Ker­shaw could buy the rab­bit spit at the price Dad­dy
need­ed and he drank up most of it him­self over the next few years.
Mama lost my broth­er child and Dad­dy sold his stills for eat­ing
mon­ey. He nev­er worked anoth­er day, just sat out back, drink­ing that
brown rab­bit spit alone because no one would come by our place
know­ing what we had buried there. When he final­ly hanged him­self
in the barn it was a mer­cy. When hard times came a few years lat­er
some peo­ple say it was Leon Simms that poi­soned the land, but I’ll
always know it was Hoyt.”
In the long silence, water over­flowed Miss Mary’s twitch­ing eye­lids
and ran down her face. She licked her lips, and Patri­cia saw that a
white film coat­ed her tongue. Her skin looked thin as paper, her
hands felt cold as ice. Her breath­ing sound­ed like tear­ing cloth.
Slow­ly, Patri­cia watched her blood­shot eyes lose their focus, and she
real­ized telling the sto­ry had set Miss Mary adrift. Patri­cia start­ed to

After metic­u­lous plan­ning, I orches­trate my first “acci­den­tal” encounter with Emi­ly Clark and Camp­bell Reed from Thorn­field Estates. The aim is to intro­duce myself not as the dog-walk­er but as Eddie’s girl­friend, sub­tly shift­ing their per­cep­tion of me from an out­sider to an inte­gral part of their cir­cle. Walk­ing Adele, Eddie and my shared dog, gives me the per­fect oppor­tu­ni­ty. Upon spot­ting me, their reac­tions are reserved, obscured by large sun­glass­es, but the sur­prise is evi­dent when they learn of my rela­tion­ship with Eddie.

Our con­ver­sa­tion swift­ly moves from the streets to Emi­ly’s house, where the dynam­ic begins to change. As a guest, I nav­i­gate their curios­i­ty and skep­ti­cism with care­ful charm, aim­ing to win them over with­out appear­ing boast­ful. The sce­nario unfolds with Emi­ly and Camp­bel­l’s cau­tious inter­ro­ga­tion about my sud­den close­ness with Eddie, which I man­age with a bal­ance of mod­esty and assertive­ness. This tact­ful engage­ment earns me an accep­tance hint­ed at by Emi­ly’s enthu­si­asm and a reluc­tant con­grats from Camp­bell, sig­nal­ing a ten­ta­tive wel­come into their fold.

Despite this, my inter­ac­tion with them at Emi­ly’s kitchen counter reveals the com­plex social under­cur­rents of Thorn­field Estates. Their shared his­to­ry, marked by the absence of Bea and Blanche, hints at a depth of rela­tion­ships and ten­sions I’ve yet to ful­ly grasp. The juice drink­ing and the casu­al talk mask an intri­cate web of friend­ships, rival­ries, and secrets that I’m only just begin­ning to per­ceive. My new­found accep­tance by Emi­ly and Camp­bell is a step into their world, yet as we dis­cuss the past, I’m remind­ed of the intri­cate social lay­ers that dis­tin­guish insid­ers from new­com­ers, chal­leng­ing my sense of belong­ing in this com­mu­ni­ty.

In Chap­ter 11 of “The Beasts of Tarzan,” after bury­ing the loy­al Kincaid’s cook, Tarzan relent­less­ly con­tin­ues his pur­suit of Rokoff, now cer­tain that his wife, Jane, is once again in the Rus­sian’s clutch­es. The jun­gle presents Tarzan with numer­ous chal­lenges, includ­ing con­fus­ing trails and a severe storm that wipes away any tracks left by Rokof­f’s par­ty. For a week, heavy rains and winds hin­der Tarzan’s progress, mak­ing him feel lost in the jun­gle for the first time. He wor­ries for Jane and their son, imag­in­ing the hor­rors they might be endur­ing at the hands of Rokoff.

Deter­mined to locate Rokoff, Tarzan decides to head north­east, hop­ing to encounter natives who could pro­vide infor­ma­tion. He soon finds a vil­lage, but the inhab­i­tants flee, fear­ing him due to Rokof­f’s warn­ings of a “white dev­il” and his demon­ic pack. Tarzan cap­tures a young war­rior who, under duress, reveals that Rokoff had indeed passed through, turn­ing the locals against Tarzan with tales of ter­ror. The vil­lage chief, M’gan­wazam, sees an oppor­tu­ni­ty to claim the reward for Tarzan’s death and shifts from hos­til­i­ty to hos­pi­tal­i­ty, hop­ing to trap Tarzan.

Tarzan’s instincts alert him to dan­ger, and he nar­row­ly avoids an assas­si­na­tion attempt in his hut, real­iz­ing too late M’ganwazam’s duplic­i­ty. An old woman, Tam­budza, whom Tarzan had pre­vi­ous­ly shown kind­ness, warns him of the plot on his life, explain­ing that M’gan­wazam is eager to col­lect a reward by killing him. She reveals that Rokoff hasn’t trav­eled far and offers to lead Tarzan to him. Unseen by them, the chief’s son, Buu­laoo, over­hears their con­ver­sa­tion, like­ly plan­ning to use the infor­ma­tion against Tam­budza.

This chap­ter, rich with pur­suit and intrigue, high­lights Tarzan’s strug­gle against both human treach­ery and the mer­ci­less jun­gle, fur­ther com­pli­cat­ing his quest to res­cue his fam­i­ly. The intro­duc­tion of local pol­i­tics and betray­al adds depth to the nar­ra­tive, show­cas­ing Tarzan’s reliance on both his pri­mal instincts and the unex­pect­ed kind­ness of strangers.